Request idea if it inspires you! - a fluffy Arthur x reader where she’s got a real, respectable job in town or something and Arthur’s all clingy in the morning and trying to convince her not to leave bed for work. xx
I hope this is the kinda thing you were after! Thank you so much for requesting!
The Worst
Arthur Morgan is an immovable object first thing in the morning, at least when he’s nestled in the comfort of your bed. All thick muscle wrapped around you and a broad, bare chest pressed tight to your back. A warm and heavy thigh hooked lazily over your legs in a tangling of limbs, and clean, white linens pooled at the expanse of his hips.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, and you blinked awake to a morning that had come far too soon. A second passed in mild confusion at the sleep warmed skin pressed against you before realisation dawned that Arthur’s presence hadn’t merely been the sweet conjurings of a pleasant dream. With a contented sigh, you traced your fingertips along the scarred forearms that wound around your frame, pressing a soft kiss to the freshly healed skin of his crooked knuckles, committing the new marks to memory. Arthur had arrived last night, without ceremony or expectation but with a lopsided grin and dirty boots, falling into the familiar routine of feigned domesticity. A hot bath. A hearty meal. An evening warmed with tales of his travels as the fire crackled and popped in the hearth.
As the chime of birdsong fluttered through the window, you found yourself resenting their usually welcome tune, a signal that responsibilities awaited, that the world didn’t stop just because Arthur Morgan had decided to drop by. No matter how much you wished it would.
Carefully, you began the delicate process of extricating yourself from Arthur’s grip.
Steady… steady now.
One foot emerged from the tangle of sheets as your fingers braced against the edge of the mattress, your teeth grazing your bottom lip.
You’d barely managed to put an inch between you when Arthur gave a gravel-rough groan, his arms tightening around you like a vice. His face buried against your shoulder blade, a soft smile curving your lips at the coarse scrape of his stubble catching on your skin and the warm puff of sleep-thickened breathing against the loose curls of your hair.
“Don’t even think about it,” he mumbled.
“Arthur, I have to get up.”
His grip tightened just a fraction as he breathed you in, nuzzling his nose against the nape of your neck.
“No, you don’t.”
"Yes. I do", you chuckled. "I gotta go to work."
“I got money. You don’t need a job.”
“I like my job.”
With a resigned huff, he reluctantly released you, blinking through the golden sunbeams that had no right to signal an end to this perfect morning so damn soon. “Besides”, you whispered, rolling over and reaching up to trace your fingers lazily over the edge of his stubbled jaw, taking in the way he let his eyes slip shut for a moment and turned his face into your palm. “Someone in this relationship has to be respectable.”
“Mm…”, he moaned softly as you brushed your lips against his. “Goddamn if I don’t love you respectable.”
Arthur watched as you dressed, a bulky arm threaded beneath the pillow and a subtle smile kinking the corner of his lip. A whisper escaped his lips, barely there, a murmur caught on the soft caress of the breeze. “I don’t deserve you.”
“I know”, you grinned as you slipped the clasp of your skirt into place. “Will you still be here tonight?”
Arthur sucked a breath in through his teeth, feigning contemplation as he shook his head in a half shrug and a poorly concealed smirk. “I don’t know. I mean, you are abandoning me right now.”
“Oh, ha ha. I truly am a heartless woman, ain’t I?”, you quipped back with a wry smile as you settled back on the edge of the bed for a moment.
His teasing melted away, heavy lidded eyes holding your gaze with a softness he reserved only for you.
“Three days”, he smiled softly, the words warm and sincere as they rolled off his tongue. "If that's alright?"
"It's always alright, Arthur", you whispered, tenderly running your thumb along the strong line of his jaw before leaning down to plant a soft goodbye kiss against plump lips.
For someone half asleep, Arthur moved swiftly, wrapping a firm hand around your waist, yanking you back onto the mattress.
"Arthur!", you squealed against his mouth as he cocooned you back into the warmth of his arms.
“Come back to bed,” he murmured.
“I can’t…”, you whined, your protests weakening with every notch of your spine the calloused pads of his fingers rippled over.
“I’ll ride you into town myself later,” he offered, like it was some grand negotiation. “Swear it. Just… stay a little longer.”
You hesitated, then exhaled. God, you had missed him, and worse than that he knew it, nuzzling into your neck with the surety of knowing just how to make you cave in.
“Five more minutes,” you huffed, settling your palm back against the contour of his waist, unable to deny the man you spent so much time parted from.
"Fifteen."
"Five."
"Ten."
A soft chuckle bubbled in your chest as he pressed his lips to hollow of your throat. "This ain't a negotiation."
"Darlin", he smirked, pulling back to catch your eye. "We both know I ain't smart enough for that anyway."
"Five", you repeated with emphasis. "But you drop me at the tram."
"I can take you to town", he shrugged, "Walk you right to the door."
"Arthur, you know I love you", you sighed, readjusting your head against his bicep. "But you're a wanted man. Last thing I need is tongues wagging."
Hands flickered in joyous embrace as they tugged your closer, a low growl reverberating from his throat.
“So, I’m your little secret?”
You laughed, joyous and melodic as you willingly allowed Arthur to tangle your limbs together again, the warmth of his body bleeding through your blouse.
“You make it sound sordid”, you chuckled before pulling back a fraction, running the pad of your thumb with unexpected sincerity over that tiny scar on his chin. “But... yes. Last I checked, you weren't exactly shouting from the rooftops about me to your little outlaw troupe either.”
“Mm, that sorry lot know as much as they need to”, he mumbled as his ring finger tucked a loose curl behind your ear. ”Keeps you safer that way.”
“Oh, I’m so safe with an outlaw in my bed, ain’t I?”
With a throaty moan, Arthur clambered on top of you, a thick forearm bracketing against the pillow as his other hand traced a featherlight trail along the curve of your neck with the back of scar worn knuckles. His bottom lip caught between his teeth as the apples of his cheeks rounded with that lopsided grin you knew far too well. Hooded blue eyes lazily wandered across your features, drinking you in, savouring you.
“I’m gonna get out, you know?”, he breathed before dipping to kiss you with a tenderness that made your knees tremble. His lips embarked on their wandering journey across your supple skin.
“Just need a little more time.”
Teeth nipped at your earlobe.
“Just need some more money”
Hot breath puffed against your jaw.
“Dutch says one more big score.”
“Ah”, you breathed as your fingers splayed across his cheek, your chests pressed so close you could feel the steady thrum of his heart. “The infamous Dutch.”
“Then I’m done.”
You've heard it all before, those endless don’t-leave-this-bed promises. But even you had to admit, it was a nice dream - your anxiety and worry vanishing like smoke beneath the gentle pressure of his body, beneath the fluttering of his lips as they found that sweet spot on your throat, his fingers kneading the flesh at your waist.
“And then I'm all yours.”
Your neck arched, your bottom lip catching the stubble of his jaw as Arthur kissed a trail of promises along your throat.
"You're gonna leave all that behind for me?"
"Darlin”, Arthur huffed against your neck as though it was something you should have always taken as written. “I’d do most anything for you."
The pocket watch on the bedside ticked with increasing furiosity. The birds sang a little louder. Your limbs seemed all the more reluctant to move.
"Ten more minutes", Arthur breathed huskily against your throat, feeling the steady exhale leave your lungs and imagining your eyes slipping closed at his lips brushing with featherlight touch across your pulse.
“I'm gonna be late”, you murmured as Arthurs deft fingers unclipped your skirt, massaging the exposed skin.
“There’s worse things.”
With a subtle grin, one hand weaved into the sleep mussed curls of Arthur’s hair, the other trailing the muscular plains of his back.
“You are a bad man, Mister Morgan.”
“Mm” Arthur smirked with that lopsided grin, his wandering fingers already slipping free the buttons of your blouse. “The worst.”
Hey I wasn’t to sure if your request are open or closed, I also couldn’t find if you have rules for requesting ether soo imma just ask and if you are not okay with it then it’s totally fine!❤️
I can’t stop thinking of like a Modern Arthur and reader like the reader is Abigail’s best friend, who has met John a handful of times so has no idea who Arthur is and the reader and Arthur meets at a bar and yeno a one night thing, and ends up pregnant and is sitting with Abigail and John telling them and when they ask who the father is they are shook and John is not helping because he can’t help but laugh please, if not it’s totally okay ❤️
Yes - of course! I'm not quite sure what you wanted, so I hope this rambling fic is okay!! Please let me know x
Requests welcome here
We'll Take Our Time
You glanced around the steadily filling room from your seat at the bar, chewing on your lip before staring back at your phone screen.
18:30 ~ I’m here x
18:45 ~ Ordering wine. You on your way? x
19:10 ~ Abigail? Helloooooooo…
19:10 ~ Don’t tell me you forgot?
Sighing heavily, you took a sip from your wine glass, draining the last of it before reaching for the bottle and pouring another. Where the hell was she? This had been her idea after all.
You were surprised when Abigail had suggested this place, a world apart from your usual Friday night haunt that boasted polished chrome and two-for-one cocktails. A recommendation from John, no doubt – this place had his edge to it. The Saloon was all battered hardwood and worn leather, clacking pool balls and raucous laughter. A myriad of penknife carved initials scarred the knotted oak bar top, more visible by touch than by sight under the dim glow of hanging Edison bulbs. You had to admit it did have a certain charm to it, even if the bartender’s response to your question of what wine they carried was a simple ‘red or white’.
Your phone rattled on the bar and your heart lifted for a moment. And then it sank again.
19:15 ~ Shit. I’m so sorry. Been stuck in the back office and hardly any signal. Only just seen your messages. Still at work x
19:15 ~ Rain check? x
19:16 ~ FFS Abi
19:16 ~ I already bought a bottle.
19:18 ~ I know. I’m sorry. If I could get out of it I would but they need this presentation for first thing monday
19:18 ~ I really am sorry. Forgive me? xxx
19:20 ~ I’ll take you for brunch tomorrow? xxx
19:20 ~ Alright. I’ll catch you tomorrow x
19:20 ~ Love you x
19:21 ~ Love you too. Even if you did just stand me up xx
19:21 ~ I’ll pick you up at 11 xx
Tossing your phone back onto the bar and cursing under your breath, you took another sip and grimaced, glancing forlornly at the half full bottle remaining. Definitely should have just ordered a beer.
“This seat taken?”
Pulled from your thoughts about how Abigail would definitely be paying you back tomorrow morning, your eyes briefly flicked to the hulking man hovering awkwardly beside you.
“Hm? Oh… no, go for it”, you mumbled back, pushing Abigail’s empty wine glass back across the bar.
The man sat beside you with a soft groan, ordering a beer and going largely unnoticed by you as you turned your attention to the song blasting from the jukebox in the corner, the third time it had played since you’d been sat there.
“Stood up?”
You glanced up at the man again, watching as he nodded at the empty glass.
“Sort of”, you grumbled, swirling your glass before shaking your head in an attempt to clear the foul mood creeping in. “My best friend, girls night out and all that. She got held up at work.”
“Ah.” He nodded, forearms braced on the bar’s edge and fingers curled around the neck of his bottle, absently picking at the label.
This time when you glanced over at him, your gaze lingered a little longer. Maybe it was the pleasant buzz of the – admittedly, still – terrible wine, but the stranger didn’t seem as mean looking as you’d imagined from first impressions of his size alone, he was maybe even kinda cute. A crop of dirty blond hair. A sharp, stubbled jaw catching the warm light. A powder blue button down tucked into dark jeans that sat low on thick and lean hips, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
“You on your own?”, you asked before suddenly catching yourself and chuckling under your breath. “Sorry. Didn’t meant that to sound like I was propositioning you.”
“Didn’t think you were”, he smiled. “My buddy bailed.”
“Ah,” you echoed, nodding to the bottle, words leaving your lips before you even realised it. “Wanna share?”
He scoffed a laugh, all teeth and dimples and shook his head. “No, I ain’t much of a wine drinker. ‘Specially not from here”, he chuckled. “Thanks though.”
“Could’a used that advice about a half hour ago”, you chuckled.
“Like gasoline, ain’t it?”
You laughed despite yourself, “Gasoline would be preferable, I think.”
“Let me buy you a drink.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine, honestly.”
“I couldn’t let you drink that and have a clear conscience”, he chuckled, already waving down the bartender and calling him by name. “What’s your poison?”
You glanced at the shelf behind the bar. “What whiskey’s good here?”
For a brief moment, the man looked surprised at your answer, before a slow, lopsided smile broke out on his lips and he leaned forward and ordered two whiskeys and two beers.
“Thank you”, you nodded sheepishly.
“Don’t mention it”, he smiled back, raising his glass. “To unreliable friends?”
You chinked your glass against his with a chuckle, taking a sip and letting it roll over your tongue. The liquor was warm and earthy, the edges caramel soft against the welcome burn. “Mm”, you exhaled, closing your eyes. “Okay, that’s far better than the wine.”
“Told you.”
You never did this, never went to bars alone, never sat and talked with random strangers. But there was something about this guy. Something easy. With a wry smile, you held your hand out, introducing yourself.
“Arthur”, he smiled back, clasping your hand in his, large and calloused and surprisingly gentle.
Conversation rolled by in a pleasant hum, laughter bubbling easily between you both as you traded stories. When your glasses ran dry, you fumbled in your purse and waved down the bartender.
“Can I get you another?”
“You don’t gotta do that.”
“Sure I do, I’d feel bad if not.”
“Well, you gotta feel bad then”, he grinned, before nodding at the bartender. “On my tab.”
By the third round, Arthur still refused your attempts to hand dollars over the bar, taking them from your hand and placing them under your phone despite your protests of, “Arthur! No, please let me get them.”
“Tell you what”, he smirked as two more beers and two more whiskeys landed in front of you, nodding towards the recently vacated pool table. “I’ll play you for it. Tonight was meant to be our pool night ‘til my buddy bailed.”
You scoffed and shook your head. “Seriously?”
“Why not?”
You looked around, the confidence of liquor humming sweetly through your veins. “Alright then.”
“Can you play?”
“Yeah, of course I-”, you began before cutting yourself off when you caught the glistening grin reaching his eyes, breaking into hearty laughter. “Nope. I’m hopeless.”
“Come on”, he chuckled, a warm palm glancing between your shoulder blades as he rose from his seat. “I’ll show you.”
You hesitated for half a beat before stuffing your phone into your purse and grabbing your drinks, following him through the throng of people to the pool table.
Pool cue in hand, you watched as Arthur racked up the balls, teeth catching his lip as he lined them up just right. In the subtle glow of the overhead light, you could catch the faint shadow of his eyelashes on sun-flecked cheeks, the glimmer of a faint scar on his chin through the scruff of stubble. He pressed the triangle forward, giving the rack a tap with both fingers for good measure before lifting it away.
“You wanna go first?”, he asked.
“Nah, you go.”
“Alright”, he smiled as you handed the cue over.
Rolling his shoulders as though easing himself into familiar territory, Arthur leaned down, the cotton of his shirt straining just slightly against the broadness of his shoulders. With his tongue flickering against his bottom lip in concentration, he made his first shot. The balls cracked pleasantly, skittering across the table before two clunked into the pockets. Arthur pushed himself up, flashing you a slow crooked grin that sent a flutter through your belly.
By the time he’d finished, he was left with four balls on the table. Taking a hearty swig of whiskey, he watched as you took your turn. You tried to conjure confidence, making attempts to look like you had any semblance of a clue about what you were doing as you lined yourself up. The cue ball bounced from cushion to cushion, missing all your balls entirely before rolling itself into the corner pocket.
“Oops,” you laughed, lifting your hands in surrender as you grimaced. “Told you I’m hopeless.”
“Ah, you ain’t hopeless”, Arthur chuckled, setting aside his drink and retrieving the cue ball as he walked over, planting it back near your end of the table. “C’mere, let me show you.”
You got yourself back in position.
“See. This hands good, you just wanna get a little lower. Alright, and then you wanna be a little to the left.”
“Like this?” you asked, readjusting.
“Too much, more like…”, he paused, his hands hovering. “You okay if I-?”
“Yeah.”
Arthur stepped behind you, his chest pressed close enough for you to feel the warmth seeping from him. One hand guiding the cue and nudging you to the perfect angle, the other reaching around and skimming your elbow.
“You ever been shooting?”
“Once”, you smiled at the table.
“Okay, so use the cue like the sight. Look down it. That’s where you wanna be aiming.”
He was close enough that you could smell the musky scent of his aftershave, feel the warm puff of whiskey-tinged breath behind your ear. You swallowed as he leaned with you, pushing down the notion of just how pleasant the warmth of his solid chest felt against your back.
“Now if you wanna get that ball in, you gotta hit it on that edge, okay?”
You nodded, fingers twitching.
“So, you gotta hit the white about… there.”
You readjusted your grip, allowing him to gently guide you and pretending not to notice the way the edge of his belt buckle pressed just so against the small of your back.
“Breathe slow. Don’t grip too hard.” The weight of his hands left the cue. “Don’t rush. Just nice and steady.”
Taking a long breath and slowly exhaling, you made your shot. You watched as balls collided, your solid yellow rolling true and just kissing the rail before landing in the pocket with a satisfying thunk.
“I did it!” You straightened so fast you knocked into the steady weight of him, then spun, grinning wide. “Did you see that?”
“Congratulations”, Arthur beamed, a hearty, chest deep chuckle ringing out as he took a step back. “This time on your own, hot shot.”
The third game of pool (the prior he had almost certainly let you win) came in an alcohol blurred flurry of easy grins, of his knuckles grazing your waist as he passed by, of your elbow bumping into his ribs when you misjudged the cramped space around you. Arthur deliberately sank the eight ball early, slapping a hand across his chest in mock dismay. Your whooping and cheering was stilled when he wryly reminded you that the winner was to buy the next round, but before you could grab your wallet, his hand stilled your wrist.
“I’ll buy you a drink one way or another”, you chuckled.
“No, you won’t.”
“Well, I’ll just leave twenty dollars on your pillow then”, you grinned.
For a moment, Arthur looked taken aback as two beers clunked onto the bar between you.
“That a promise?” As soon as the words left his mouth, his neck pinkened, his eyes flitting to the bar, the ground; a smile still ghosting his lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“Mean what?”, you laughed, chinking your beer against his.
“Don’t want you thinking I’m like that, is all”, he grinned back, taking a swig. “Like some guy who-“
“Like some guy who what?”
Arthur opened his mouth but cut himself off as he watched you strain to hear the music bleeding from the jukebox, watching your lips move silently to the tune, the Eagles sliding into CCR.
“I love this song!”, you announced, exaggeratedly holding out your hands.
“Oh, no!”
“What, come on!”
“I don’t dance.”
The song had barely reached the chorus before you were both up on what could hardly be called a dancefloor. As the tracks bled against each other, the tempo edging ever slower into a signal of the nights end, on the dancefloor you remained. Hands found each other’s hips. Your bodies pressed tight. Eyes locked. You couldn’t be sure who started it, but before you knew it, your lips were on his. Fingers tangled in the curls of your hair, yours curling loosely in the now-open collar of his shirt. When the last bell rang, and you were met with the icy sting of night air, you found yourself in a cab home with Arthur beside you.
Stifled laughter filled the hall of your apartment, clothing stripped and left like a breadcrumb trail as you both fumbled through the moonlit dark. Giggles gave way to subtle moans as you worked your way to your bedroom, his lips roaming the flesh of your neck all the while, his hands tracing the curves of your body as your fingertips feverishly yanked his leather belt free from its loops. You fell onto the bed with your fingers tangled in that crop of dirty blonde hair, gasping at the feel of his hips rolling against you. His bottom lip dragged against your jaw as he braced his forearm against the pillow, his breath raw and ragged against the lobe of your ear. Your kisses came beer-sweet, his whiskey-warm, both clumsy at first, then slower, deeper. His pelvis met yours and you tossed your head back, one hand reaching back to grip the pillow as Arthur kissed bruises into the hollow of your throat. Stars sparkled in your vision. You choked his name as your back arched, your nails carving crescent moons into the flesh of his back.
When you woke, the light was already spilling unwelcome through the window. With a groan you blinked to see Arthur haphazardly gathering his clothing. The slip of black boxer shorts over milky skin. Inhaling deep and closing your eyes against the thundering in your skull, the mattress dipped, and you blinked again to see Arthur perched on the edge of the bed.
“I gotta go”, Arthur whispered, his fingertips brushing back your hair.
“Mm”, you grunted, sleep addled and head pounding.
“Got you another glass of water”, he said quietly, tugging the sheets over your shoulders. "And left my number on your bedside table"
“Mm’kay”, you nodded, already nuzzling back into your pillow, giving his hand a final squeeze before feeling it slip from your fingers.
But you’d never find the number he left. In your half-asleep fumblings for the glass of water on your nightstand, you would knock it off the side of the unit where it fluttered under the bed, lost and forgotten. Half-remembering the events of that morning you would chalk the night up to nothing more than a one-night stand, vaguely remembered.
You woke again at 12:30pm to three missed calls from Abigail about brunch.
**
Five weeks later
08:45 ~ Need to chat Abi. You free today? x
09:50 ~ Sure. What’s up? X
09:50 ~ Have I done something? x
09:52 ~ No. Not you, just it’s important. Can you come over?
09:54 ~ Yeah, I’m with John though if that’s okay? X
09:54 ~ Sure. Yeah, whatever. I just REALLY need to talk to you!
09:54 ~ Something happened? X
09:55 ~ I don’t know. Tell you when you’re here. I am freaking out
09:55 ~ Ok… gimme an hour? X
09:56 ~ 👍
In that moment, it seemed like John sprawling across your sofa, as loud and inappropriate as you found him, was a small price to pay. Shit. You really needed to talk to Abigail. She’d know what to do. What to say.
You busied yourself tidying the living room, making tea, anything to keep your hands from fidgeting. Finally, a sudden knock at the door dragged you from your spiralling thoughts, the creak of it opening signalled it was Abigail, the only person besides your parents that had their own key.
“Hey!”, Abigail beamed, dropping her tote bag onto the sofa, immediately wrapping you in a hug so warm you had to keep yourself from crumbling.
“Alright?”, John mumbled behind her. “What’s the big drama then? Her ladyship was supposed to be picking out new tiles for the bathroom so I can finally get it finished.”
“Shut up, John”, Abigail chided, fishing on the coffee table for the TV remote before tossing it into his lap where he’d already plopped himself down on the couch. “Just watch your police helicopter thing or something.”
“Sure”, he grumbled, already slouching down and flicking through the channels, takeout coffee cup in hand. “Know where I ain’t wanted. You girls go do your important girl thing – I can buy tiles next month…”
Shrugging off John’s grumblings, Abigail followed you to the kitchen, accepting the mug of tea you pressed into her hands.
“Okay,” she said softly, “now, what’s going on?”
“I-“, you exhaled sharply, casting a glance through the narrow doorway at John. “I don’t want him to know. I don’t want anyone to know.”
Abigail leaned forward, casting a glance through at John who was laughing heartily at some inane police chase from six years ago. “He’s not listening.”
Then her eyes found the way your mug trembled in your hands, the way your eyes remained trained on the floor.
“What’s going on?” She asked, her voice hushed. “Is it your family?”
“No”, you sniffed. “No…it’s… shit… I can’t…”
“Sweetheart, you can tell me anything. You know that. Something’s eating at you. Just tell me…”
Your eyes flicked to your mug, to the door, to Abigail's eyes resting under knitted brows.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Abigail blinked. Her mouth opened, the closed again. She shook her head. “Wait, what?”
“I missed my period. I’m late… like, really late”, you murmured, your voice cracking. “And I took this.”
With trembling fingers, you grabbed the white stick from the counter behind you and held it out. You knew that your fears had been confirmed the moment that Abigail’s eyes widened. That blue line hadn’t been your imagination.
“How the fuck is this gonna be alright?”, you hissed.
“You’ve got me and… and what about the father?”
“I don’t know who he is…”
“What?”
“What do you mean, what?!”, you bit back in a hushed whisper. “I don’t fucking know. I mean, I know who it is. I remember him. I know his first name. But I don’t know who the fuck he is!”
“Oh, for-”, Abigail gasped, handing the stick back. “How do you know him but not know him?!”
“It was a one night thing, I didn’t realise I’d end up fucking pregnant!”
Cutting through the open kitchen doorway came the sudden click of the TV pausing. You both froze. A beat held for the longest moment.
“You’re knocked up?”, John called out.
“John!”, Abigail squealed.
“What?”, he shouted back, “You said it like five feet from me! I ain't deaf!”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I told you I didn’t want him to know.”
“Hey, I ain’t gonna judge!”, he called back, followed by a huff of a breath that tapered off into a sign. “Just come in here and sit down, would’ya?”
Reluctantly, you followed Abigail back into the living room, flopping down on the chair as she sat next to John.
“Besides”, he continued with a smirk on his lips, “Ain’t right, standing up like that. A woman in your conditio- OW!”
Abigail's palm swatted his shoulder sure and fast, leaving John batting her away.
“I was just sayin’!”
“Well, don’t!”
“So, who’s the dad?”, John asked, a palm massaging his shoulder.
“Just… when was it?”, Abigail chimed in, leaning forward in her seat.
You bit at your lip. “Remember that night we had planned, and you bailed? The… what was the place called…?”
“The Saloon?”
“Yeah.”
John immediately sat up straighter. “Hey, I know that place! I play pool there!”
“Well, I ended up staying and I got talking to this guy.”
“Describe him”, John said, waving his arms the moment Abigail shot him a look. “What? I practically live in that place.”
“And don’t I know it?”
“I’m just sayin’…”, he huffed, “I might know the guy. What did he look like?”
You brain whirred, flashes of tender embraces flooding your memory. “Uhm… tall, blonde I think. He was… I dunno… he was nice.”
“You said you knew his first name?”, Abigail asked.
“Yeah”, you breathed, chewing at your lip. “Arthur, I think?”
You hadn’t expected the room to fall eerily silent, for Abigail and John to exchange that look that meant they’d both clicked onto something you weren’t quite privy to yet.
“This was a month or so ago?”, John asked.
“Yeah”, you nodded. “Why?”
“Oh fuckin’ shit!” he grinned.
“John!”, Abigail chided.
“Didn’t I tell you? He’s been mooning over some chick he went home with that never called him back. I told you Abigail, I know I did. He was real moody about it. It was that night I was meant to go play pool with him, but me and you…”
“John!”
“No, I just… hang on, is this the guy?” John fumbled with his phone for a few seconds before holding it out towards you. On the screen was a zoomed in photo of a man with dirty blonde hair, a dimpled smile. Drunken memories flooded back like a tidal wave and your blood ran near cold at the realisation. “Is that him?”
Your brows knitted together. “You know him?”
“Fuck”, John grinned, a hearty belly laugh springing in his chest. “Arthur?”
“Stop laughing! Why, who is he?”, you huffed.
“That’s his best friend”, Abigail sighed, a hand scrubbing her forehead.
“Arthur Morgan?” John beamed.
“It ain’t funny”, you half shouted at him.
“Arthur – honour is everything – Morgan got you knocked up?”
“John!” Abigail scolded, swivelling to glare at him. “That’s enough!”
“Sorry”, John smiled, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Arthur Morgan, you ol’ dog”, he chuckled under his breath. “You gonna tell him?”
“I… yeah… I mean, I should, right?”
Abigail leaned forward, her hand laying tenderly across your arm. “You should.”
“I just… I don’t even have his number.”
“Not a problem”, John smiled, leaning forward and tapping buttons on his phone.
“John, what are you-?”
“Not a problem”, John cut you off, the ringing already echoing around the room. “Better to rip the band aid off, right?”
“Be discrete”, Abigail groaned, her hand scrubbing at her eyes.
Your mouth flopped like a beached fish as you struggled for words, and then you heard it, that drop of the dial tone replaced by a gruff, “Hey, John.”
“Man, you ain’t gonna believe this, but- HEY get the hell off me!“
Abigail launched forward, wrestling the phone from John’s hand, her hand pressed tight against the microphone as she hissed, “I said be discrete!”
With a pleading look, she held the phone out to you, but the words clammed up in your throat, and instead, you just shook your head. Clearing her throat, she pressed the phone to her ear.
“Arthur? Hi, it’s Abigail
….
Yeah, no, he’s just being an idiot.
…
Tell me about it.
…
Hey, can you do me a favour?
…
Could you meet us at my friend’s place?
…
Mm-hm, yeah…I’ll send you the address.
…
No, that’s fine.
…
Alright… thanks, see you soon.”
“He'll be here in ten”, Abigail, said softly, handing the phone back to John with a pointed don’t even think about it stare. “We should get them tiles sorted, hm?”
John let out a sigh as he hauled himself to his feet. “Yeah, sure.”
You stood out of politeness as they made their way to the door, Abigail enveloping you in a hug. “It’s gonna be okay. You call me if you need, alright?”
To your surprise, you found John lingering by the door. “You know”, he said quietly. “He ain’t gonna flip out about this. Wouldn’t leave you if he would. Arthur’s… well, I’ve known him since I was a kid. He’s a good man.”
“Thanks”, you nodded, your skin buzzing with anxiety too much to allow his words to really sink in.
And then the door was shut. And then you were alone. Blood rushed in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest, your stomach feeling empty and nauseous all at once. You paced the living room thrice over, nervously readjusting the cushions. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. You pondered the fact that he might not come at all, that you might not have to face it.
And then three short raps rattled the door.
With a heavy exhale, you gripped the doorknob, the wood creaking as it opened to reveal a familiar broad figure. Dirty blond hair curled around his ears. A button-down shirt tucked into dark jeans. A scent of musky aftershave. The ghost of your name mutely formed on his surprised lips for a moment as he removed his hat.
